


Since the house is on fire let us warm ourselves

by melonbutterfly



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-05
Updated: 2010-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:13:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonbutterfly/pseuds/melonbutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is wet and cold, and Eames gets to play the gallant nurse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Since the house is on fire let us warm ourselves

Eames is just perusing the menu of the room service, suspecting no harm; he doesn't feel like going out for dinner today because he's just spent seven days romancing their mark into handing over their secrets, and he really needs some time off. That it was just in a dream doesn't make much of a difference; he feels like wearing comfy clothes, slouching in bed and purging on unhealthy fast food. A knock on the door is surprising; he's not expecting any visitors. Cobb has already left the city, and Arthur is probably still meeting with their client. There's nobody else who would visit him.

That's why he quickly slides off the bed, opens the window to the fire escape – it's raining and icy cold outside, but it's not like he has a choice if push comes to shove – grabs his Beretta and checks who it is.

It's Arthur, and he's wet. Blinking in confusion, Eames puts his Beretta in his belt, checks for his totem with one hand – reality – and opens the door with the other. "What-" he starts, then stops, because his glance through the peephole didn't even rudimentally cover the extent of how bad Arthur looks.

He's not just wet. He's dripping a puddle on the carpet, he's deathly pale, and his lips are slightly blue. Also, he's shivering violently.

Eames thinks of the icy rain outside, puts two and two together and gets, while not four, at least a three. He knows what hypothermia looks like. Arthur blinks at him in confusion, but Eames ignores it; instead he grabs him on the shoulder and pulls him into the room. "Take your clothes off," he orders, and Arthur blinks again, but Eames doesn't notice because he's striding over to the window that lets all the warmth out and closes it quickly. When he turns around, Arthur is still standing at the entryway, hands in his pockets and blinking.

"Arthur," he says sternly. "You're freezing, take your- oh, for heaven's sake, let me do it." Arthur probably won't be able to handle the many, many buttons on his clothes anyway, he's shivering so hard. His breathing is quick, as if he ran all the way here, but Eames knows it's probably the hypothermia; Arthur most likely wouldn't be able to move quick now if his life depended on it. "Where you followed? Did something go wrong?", he asks while he undoes the buttons on Arthur's coat, waistcoat and then shirt. Even if someone is on their trails right now, first priority is to get Arthur warm, or this could get worse.

All Arthur manages is a quick shake of the head, almost unnoticeable because he's shivering so violently; Eames has to warm him up quickly. Shoving the man's clothes off his shoulders in one swoop, he decides that letting Arthur stand around half-naked while Eames helps him out of his shoes and pants is probably not so good an idea; because of the formerly open window, it's cooler in this room than is good for him. Thus, he takes Arthur by the shoulders, frowning at the icy temperature of his skin, and pushes him over into his bathroom, figuring that right now, Arthur probably can barely think straight, much less answer any questions.

At least he's not fighting; pliantly, he follows all of Eames directions, climbs into the shower and lets Eames turn on the water. Lukewarm first, so he won't go into rewarming shock; then, when he's a little warmer again and has stopped breathing so heavily, he can turn it warmer still. Closing the glass door to the shower, he orders "Stay here, I'll get you something warm to drink," waits for a moment and decides to interpret a nod into the shivering. Then he goes and gets the phone to charm the room service.

He's lucky; he gets a youngish sounding woman who is very sympathetic when he explains to her in an exaggerated British accent that his boyfriend got caught in the rain and that it would be much appreciated if they'd get some hot chocolate, peppermint tea and soup really quickly. She also giggles a lot, but he doesn't care about that when she promises there'll be someone with them in the next twenty minutes.

That taken care of, he gets back into the bathroom, where Arthur is still standing under the shower. His breathing is calmer and the shivering has reduced somewhat; his lips aren't blue anymore. He's not back to his normal colour (pale as well, but not sickly-looking like this) yet, but hopefully he will be soon. He's also staring down at his shoes with a frown.

When Eames opens the door to the shower, Arthur looks up and turns the frown on him. "My shoes are ruined," he says, and Eames wraps his relief in a lop-sided grin.

"Just wet, darling, maybe you can save them still," he replies; then, under the pretence of checking his temperature, puts his hand on Arthur's belly, then neck to check his pulse. He really likes it, Arthur's wet skin, and now that Arthur isn't in immediate danger of passing out anymore, he can look a little.

Arthur makes a puzzled sound and frowns harder at Eames, who raises an eyebrow, reaches around him and turns the water hotter. "Stay in," he warns when it looks like Arthur is about to duck away. "You're still colder than you should be." Then he reaches for Arthur's belt, only to be stopped by shaking hands.

"I can do that on my own," Arthur complains – it's almost a whine – and immediately moves to show him. Except he can't; his fingers are uncoordinated and still cold, and still trembling. Eames lets him try long enough for Arthur to realise that he really can't; then he gently pushes his hands out of the way and swiftly undoes belt, button and zipper. Pushing the pants down but leaving the briefs on (Arthur wouldn't let him undress him completely, no matter his condition, and he wants Arthur to get naked for him the first time out of his own free will), then crouches and undoes Arthur's shoes. Wordlessly, he encourages Arthur to step out of them, getting rid of his socks and pants at the same time, then takes his wet clothes and throws them into the sink. "You have to stay there for a while longer, pet," he murmurs and closes the shower door again, because the glass is getting fogged up and Arthur will probably feel more comfortable not being on display almost completely naked. "Even if you feel good now, you have to stay there. You're still cold."

Eames waits until Arthur nods before he leaves the bathroom. It's a good thing he has such a sweet tooth; he always has something sugary with him, and apart from something warm, that's what Arthur needs right now. He remembers what the doctor had taught him so long ago, about hypothermia and what to do in such a case; Arthur needs to get warm from inside and out, and he needs sugar.

In his suitcase, he finds lollipops and chocolate, as well as an old shirt, soft flannel and sweatpants; that will have to do. He doesn't own any pyjamas, and everything will be too big on Arthur anyway.

There's nothing much for him to do after that; he has to wait for the room service, then go and get Arthur out of the shower, dry, into the clothes and then wrapped into a comforter. Then Arthur will have to drink the hot chocolate and soup and eat something sugary, and then he can sleep. Somewhere in between, he will hopefully be able to tell Eames whether they're in danger and need to watch out or get away, or not. Maybe their client screwed them over, or something else happened. It's always possible.

Since he has nothing better to do, Eames decides to pre-warm the bed, strips down to his boxers and wraps the comforter around himself. He'll probably sleep on the couch today, but he's slept at worse places, and this is _not_ the situation for some friendly teasing. He doesn't want to use Arthur, he wants to _have_ him; he can continue to be patient.

"Eames?" Arthur's voice wafts over from the bathroom, sounding a little unsure.

"Just a moment, darling!", he calls back, crawls out of the comforter (carefully keeping the warm side away from the air) and quickly gets to his suitcase to dig out a pair of wool socks, glad that his mother nagged him into the habit of always carrying a pair with. Grabbing the shirt and sweatpants as well, he goes back into the bathroom, throws a towel onto the floor for Arthur to stand on so his feet won't get cold and gets another to wrap him in. Arthur immediately shuts the water down and steps out of the stall onto the towel; he's surprisingly compliant and lets Eames wrap the other one around his shoulders. For one moment, it's almost as if Eames is hugging him. He'd like to be; Arthur is still shivering slightly, though he has mostly returned to his natural pale colour and his skin is warm underneath the towel.

"Let's get you dry," Eames says and steps back to get another towel to dry Arthur's hair with. Sure, he doesn't exactly need it; his hair isn't that long. Eames just doesn't want him to get cold again.

Arthur is slow to respond as he grabs the corners of the towel around his shoulders, but it doesn't seem to be the confusion as a side-effect of hypothermia anymore; he just moves slowly. He's probably tired.

But Eames doesn't wait around to watch. "I brought you some dry clothes." He gestures towards the pile he put on the cabinet, trying very hard not to think about the fact that Arthur will be wearing no underwear, and leaves the bathroom again, this time closing the door after himself.

That's when he notices he's still in his boxers, and that Arthur didn't say anything about it. Eames hopes Arthur won't read any ulterior motives into that; he always does and is mostly right (though not completely so), but really, right now he doesn't have the slightest intention to accost Arthur with his usual obvious flirting. Sure, Arthur is always hot and his mere presence will always drive Eames a little crazy, but he does have some sort of moral code, which includes that it's not okay to harass sick, injured or drugged people, especially if they're Arthur. He likes to flirt, not importune.

A knock on the door pulls him out of his musings, and he quickly goes to open the door after checking the peephole. It's room service, and two minutes early as well. Completely forgetting again that he's only in his boxers, he lets the girl in, who turns out to be the one he talked on the phone with; he recognises her voice. He has an ear for voices, and an eye for faces. When he makes a point of thanking her elaborately, she blushes deep read, which might also be because of his half-naked status, and he sends her a smarmy smile, tips her extraordinarily well and then quickly slips into his own pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

"Thank you, dear," he says, and she throws one look at Arthur, who's standing in the door to the bathroom, looking sleepy and confused and adorably mussed, then leaves the room. Eames can hear her giggle in the hallway while he secures the lock; she'll probably tell all her colleagues about the half-naked gay man and his boyfriend with the too big clothes.

When he turns around, Arthur is still standing in the same spot, hesitant and unsure, two things Eames isn't used to associating with him. Well, neither is hypothermia, so there's that.

"Bed, comforter." He raises one eyebrow and earns Arthur's scowl, which makes him considerably happier, as does Arthur climbing into his bed and curling up under the warm comforter. "Now you have to eat at least some of the soup and drink the whole hot chocolate," he explains, drags the rolling cart with both soup and hot chocolate plus the peppermint tea closer and puts it all on the nightstand for easier reach, pouring both soup and hot chocolate into their respective cups. "You have to get warm."

"I am warm," Arthur complains, but doesn't do much more than send him another scowl before picking up the spoon and reluctantly starting to eat.

"Right now you may feel like it, pet, but you're not over it yet. Besides, you could still get sick, and we don't want that, do we?"

"Don't talk to me like I'm a child. I knew that." Somehow, Arthur still manages to look appropriately indignant while wrapped in a thick comforter and wearing a pink, way too big flannel shirt. It's awesome. Eames sure knows how to pick them.

"Yes, honey," Eames replies diligently and gets his chocolate and lolly pops. "When you're done with the soup and chocolate, you eat some of these. We need to get some sugar into you, wouldn't want you to go into hypoglycaemic shock, now would we, love?"

Arthur just throws him a sullen look, but he obediently eats all of his soup and then starts sipping at the hot chocolate. Eames unwraps a lolly pop for himself – blueberry, he loves those, and they colour his tongue so nicely – and slouches on the far end of the bed. "Now, will you tell me what happened?" Because none of his theories really fit, and he'd like to know in advance if they have to run anytime soon.

Sighing, Arthur puts down his mug; his expression turns a little more resigned, which tells Eames that there might be no shootings in their immediate future. Possibly. "It was an accident. Somewhere. And a traffic jam. I was in the taxi and it wasn't too far to the hotel; I thought I would walk. It started raining. End of story."

He lets the suspicious frown that threatens to take over his expression come out; no need to wear too many masks around Arthur. "Just how long did it take you?"

Arthur throws him a glare. "Twenty minutes. I bought an umbrella."

Eames lets his raised eyebrow speak for him, and Arthur _purses his lips_. "There was wind, and maybe it was thirty minutes, and it might have blown the umbrella away, okay?"

He thinks about asking why Arthur ended up here, in his room, but decides that question is better left unasked for now. Instead, he sighs unhappily and shakes his head. "I can't let you go anywhere on your own, can I, sweetheart?"

Pressing his lips together, Arthur scowls into his mug and chucks the remaining hot chocolate down as if it were alcohol. Then he looks over the sweets Eames piled on the bed, sighs, doctors himself a cup of tea that involves way too much sugar for Eames' taste (philistines, the lot of them; the last time he saw Cobb prepare himself a cup of tea he had had to look away and pretend it was a sort of poison), then unwraps a citron-flavoured lolly pop _and stirs the tea with it_. Eames might or might not make a gagging noise, and Arthur might or might not look repressively triumphant when he takes a sip of his brew.

"Turn on the TV," Arthur orders; his mood seems to have considerably improved.

They watch a movie with Dutch subtitles together; for the first half of it, Eames tries to make Arthur laugh by reading them aloud with as awful a pronunciation as he can manage, but then he figures the worst is probably over and lets him fall asleep. It's highly likely he'll have a cold in the morning, but there's nothing to be done about it now. He'll get medicine in the morning, if necessary.

When he switches off the TV and light and slinks over to the couch, Arthur makes a noise into his pillow; he pauses, but when he doesn't do it again, he figures it was just a dream or something like that. Maybe Arthur can still dream; occasionally it happens even in their line of work, or so he has heard.

But just when he has curled up under the sheet and gotten vaguely comfortable, Arthur makes the noise again; then there's the rustling of the comforter as Arthur pushes it off. "Eames," he slurs, sounding disgruntled and not at all awake. "Get over here."

"I'd rather not take advantage of the sick, darling," Eames replies apologetically. Arthur probably is only half-aware of what he's doing and would castrate him in the morning if he got into bed with him.

"I'm not sick," Arthur says, sounding a little more awake and a little more put out. "But... I'm cold."

Eames sits up quickly. "Really? Do you want me to get you a hot water bottle? I could call room service, they might-"

Arthur interrupts him. "No." His voice is a little sheepish, and a little defensive when he adds, "Just get over here."

When Eames doesn't reply, for a moment silence reigns between them; then there's the rustling of cloth on cloth again as Arthur lays back down.

Eames purses his lips, considers for a moment, then throws his measly sheet off and is across the room in seconds, sliding under the warm comforter. There's no reaction from Arthur at first, but as Eames gets more comfortable, something bumps into his upper arm, and it certainly wasn't his doing.

Under the cover of the dark, it takes Arthur less than five minutes and a few insistent but quiet prods until they're both arranged to his liking. He's curled on his side, hugging a pillow to his chest, and Eames is plastered to his back, arms wrapped around him and legs curled together. Arthur doesn't seem to be too cold, but Eames has no intention of mentioning that.

It takes him a while to fall asleep, but he doesn't mind.


End file.
